In Vino Veritas
by Sarcasm for free
Summary: Daenerys wants fresh air, Jon Snow is sleeping in her bed, and her Hand is drunk. At first glance, it might look as if these three events were unrelated. But only at first glance. (missing scene, s7ep7)


Jon Snow was a considerate lover, to put it favorably. For someone who had experienced rough, frenzied, and passionate sex, tender – albeit a bit hasty – was a nice diversion. It, nevertheless, made her wary. He wasn't Drogo and she wasn't whoever he pictured as he vacantly stared at her during climax.

Daenerys left the man sleeping in her bed. There was no reason to make him leave when she had no intention of staying herself. At least one of them deserved to rest after the day they had.

The hallway was deserted and only echoed the creaking of her steps on unsound wood back at her. At this hour, no one should have been awake, but as always, expectations about her entourage were not met.

"He's a good man," her Hand drawled from his seat on the stairs leading to the upper deck, an empty decanter at his feet. "Remarkable, most would say. But I'll settle for good since he could be Azor Ahai and still would not be worthy of you." He threw the rest of his wine back and studied her with unfocussed eyes before he let his fingers play over the rim of the glass he held. "Not too little anymore, is he?"

She didn't need a reminder of that highly uncomfortable discussion. She still had the images imprinted in her mind of how she'd raged in a fit of annoyance at Jon Snow's perceived audacity to him, just to end up recounting the men who'd loved her. To this day, she was grateful Tyrion hadn't insisted on being up on the list, after she had left him out. It had affirmed her belief that his infatuation had ebbed away by that point and had settled into something more manageable. It still didn't save her from having to backtrack once she had caught herself commenting on Jon's height.

Acutely conscious of her state of dress all of a sudden, she tried to adjust her creased clothing and inched closer to the stairs. Fresh air and a clear view of the night sky sounded more enticing by the second.

"I was not aware we had wine on board," she said, ignoring his comment. They had decided to travel lightly, frivolous things to be left behind, she distinctly recalled.

Even with his small stature he was able to block her way, sprawling over the narrow steps and taking more space than was proper. "I am on this ship. I am the Hand of the rightful Queen. Thus, there is wine." Not a bead of liquid dropped onto his tongue when he canted his head back, the cup poised above his open mouth. "Or there was wine," he quite forlornly told the empty glass.

As Daenerys set foot on the first step, Tyrion instinctively drew his outstretched legs inwards, making room for her. She didn't go further than a few steps, until her hips were parallel with his head. Being a drunkard and loose-tongued didn't make him less of an ally or, as she liked to tell herself in quieter moments, a confidant, so he deserved her consideration, even in his current state. The previous day couldn't have been easy for him. The presence of Cersei Lannister and all the deadly tension involved were hard enough on her and she wasn't related to the woman, only the biggest obstacle in Cersei's way. The air between Tyrion and his brother hadn't been that much lighter, from what she had witnessed. Less intolerable, but far from warm. At any rate, Tyrion hadn't gone out of a discussion with him pale as the sand at Dragonstone.

"You were remarkable today. There is no reason to drench your sorrows in alcohol. You were a worthy Hand, even in the face of your family's animosity." The reutilization of his own words, both used to describe Jon, had the desired effect, for he puffed up considerably. Daenerys, though, was amused with herself for picking up that thread of conversation again.

Tyrion's moment of euphoria was short-lived and he deflated easily enough. "There is reason and sorrow enough when the woman you worship lies with another, a better, man on a ship on which every moan volleys back between the walls."

Her neck snapped downward as she started to stare him down. She hadn't been unaware of his adoration for her; she had just thought they had left it behind them. Fanciful notions aside, it had seemed preposterous in the beginning and was more hinted at than spoken aloud. Making him her Hand had been the greatest reciprocation she had been capable of at the time, a true testament of her respect and care for him.

Now, things had changed. She studied a man who had defied family, houses, and personal demons for her. They'd come a long way in a short time, but she could say the same for Jon Snow. Yet, just because one man had gotten to sleep with her was not an acceptable reason for another to drink himself into a stupor. Her faith that there was nothing carnal about Tyrion's intentions towards her began to crumble, which made her heckles rise. Men had always fought over her, it was a fact of life. That didn't make it less vexing.

"Laying the blame for your loss of inhibition on the woman you desire is not reasoning I can adhere to." She narrowed her eyes. "And I would remind you that it's also improper for a Hand to talk like this to his Queen." She bent down and grabbed the glass dangling from his hand before it could fall and splinter. "The same applies to the Hand being drunk enough to voice such thoughts in the first place." With her free hand, she lifted her skirts to make her way up the stairs easier. She was done talking if he intended to overlay their relationship with unsolicited possessiveness and masculine posturing.

"You are right, your Highness."

She tilted her head but didn't look back at him. "Of course I am."

His sigh reverberated as much as her earlier moans seemingly had. "I misspoke, I beg your pardon." For a man so drunk he was out of his wits, he was astonishingly articulate and aware.

She finally turned her head in his direction. The way he smacked his lips and puffed air like one of her children when they'd been hatchlings and playfully creating smoke rings suggested he had more to say for himself.

"I love you. I should have begun with that," he told her, his voice clear and steady. "My comment wasn't intended to–" A self-ironic laugh she interrelated more with him than the previous subtle claim of ownership followed. "I'm not skilled at this. Flesh and lust, I'm a master at." She couldn't discern if this was the self-deprecation she was used to, a ploy to make light of the situation, or the true pride in his sexual prowess she had sometimes glimpsed. "At romance and all it entails, though, I'm a disaster waiting to happen. Forgive me, my Queen." There was an undercurrent of untold agony, of stories he hadn't shared with her. And why should he have done so? She hadn't told him all of hers either, she mused, a slight pang of longing taking hold of her.

Part of her wished she had just gone to the upper deck and not tried to be courteous. Another part thrilled at his proclamation in a way she hadn't anticipated.

The stem of the glass she still held dug into the folds of her fingers as she clenched them around it.

She _wouldn't_ tell him about all she had endured, she vowed to herself in that moment. But she thought of herself lying at Drogo's deathbed and of Jon Snow murmuring a name he was not aware of into her hair. Leniency was a kind mistress she had forgotten how to play court to, only recently discovered anew. "See if you feel the same in daylight when you are not wallowing in dark corners and bottles of wine. Tell me this when you are sober."

A snort, crinkling his eternally misshapen and slashed-at nose, escaped him. "So never." He tried to get his hands on the decanter, probably to see if he could eke a last drop out of it, but she used the heel of her left foot to shove it out of his reach.

"Perhaps," she allowed. "Or perhaps all you need is fresh air."

She descended the stairs, slowly and with measure, and put the glass down on a plank to her right. "Do you care to accompany me?"

He didn't answer but scrambled up in haste as if afraid she would change her mind.

When they entered the deck, stars shone above their heads and Drogon's roar was a dull sound miles away from their location. They stood side by side looking up and breathing for the first time in more than a day.

Daenerys had a man she'd loved dead in the ground, and one once dead, now alive, and consumed by memories of another woman in her bed. A man, alive and devoted to her, though as damaged as her, seemed like the next logical step and, as she cast a glance upon Tyrion Lannister, also like not such a hardship on her part.

There were worse men to fall for.


End file.
